“Jump!” the firemen shouted at her, “Jump!!” But she felt frozen as she sat there, and they were powerless to help her. There was nothing they could do for her, except encourage her to do what she had done for her children. And as she sat, clutching the window frame, she could see Louise de Beauchamp's face in her mind's eye and knew what she had felt that night, when she had lost her son, and had known that Bernard had killed him, as surely as if he had taken a gun and shot him. If nothing else, Marie-Ange had to leap to save her own children from him, and to stop him. But it was so terrifying she couldn't move. She was paralyzed with terror as they watched her.

She could see Bernard screaming to her, her babies were in other arms than his by then, and all eyes were turned toward her. And knowing that no one was watching him then, Bernard looked up as he hung back in the crowd and smiled at her. He knew she was too frightened to do it. He would gain the lion's share of her estate when she died, and he could do anything he wanted with it once he had it. He had failed in his mission to kill his last wife, and killed only her son, but this time he would be more successful. And the next time, Marie-Ange wondered as she looked at him, who would he kill then? Heloise? Or Robert? Or both of them? How many people would he destroy before someone stopped him? And as though she were next to her, Marie-Ange could hear Louise speaking of Charles the night he died in her arms in their country house, and it was as though Louise spoke to her now, loudly and clearly.

“Jump, Marie-Ange! Now!” And as she heard the words in her head, she leaped finally from the window, and flew down, her big red skirt billowing like a parachute, and it knocked the wind out of her when she landed in the net they held for her. The first face she saw looking down at her was Bernard's, crying and holding his arms out to her, as she shrank from him. She had seen it all in his eyes before that, she had understood everything. He was truly the monster Louise had said he was. He was a man who had been willing to kill her child, and his own, and two women. And as Marie-Ange looked at him, she spoke clearly.

“He tried to kill us,” she said calmly, stunned by the sound of her own voice, and the words she was saying. “He took the key to the roof with him, after he locked it, so we could not get out. He left us there to die,” she said, as he stepped backward as though she'd hit him. “He's done it before,” Marie-Ange said for all to hear, but he had tried to destroy all that she held dear, and she would never forgive him for it. “He set a fire that killed his last wife's son,” she said, as rampant hatred leaped from his eyes toward her. “He locked them in a room as well, and nearly killed her, but he didn't. You tried to kill us,” she said directly at him, as he reached out as though to slap her and then stopped himself, fighting for composure.

“She's lying. She's insane. She's always been unbalanced,” and then he tried to sound calm, as he spoke to the fire chief standing next to him, listening, and watching Marie-Ange's face. She didn't look unbalanced to him. “She's come un-glued from the shock of seeing her children in danger.”

“You set the fire, Bernard,” she said to him in an icy tone. ‘You left us there. You took the key. You wanted us to die, so you could take all the money, not just mine, but theirs too. You should have died in the fire, and perhaps next time you will,” she said as the rage she felt began to boil over, and the local constable moved toward Bernard discreetly. One of the firemen had said something to him, and he was suggesting to Bernard that he come with them and answer some questions. And Bernard refused to go with him, and expressed his outrage.

“How dare you! How dare you listen to her! She's a lunatic! She has no idea what she's saying.”

“And Louise? Was she a lunatic too? And what about Charles? He was a four-year-old child when you killed him.” Marie-Ange was sobbing by then, as she stood in the freezing night and one of the firemen put a blanket over her shoulders. They had nearly stopped the fire by then, but the destruction inside the house was almost total.

“Monsieur le Comte,” the constable said clearly to him then, “if you do not come with us willingly, sir, which I hope you will, we will be obliged to put you in handcuffs.”

“I'll see that you're fired for this. It's an outrage!” he objected, but went with them. Their friends had long since departed, and Marie-Ange was left with the caretaker, the men who had come up from the farm, the firemen, and her babies.

They had given oxygen to Robert, and he was shivering, but calm by then, and Heloise was fast asleep in the arms of a fireman, as though nothing had happened. Alain offered to let them stay with him that night, and as she watched the last of the fire burn, Marie-Ange realized that once again she was starting from nothing. But she was alive, and she had her children. That was all she cared about now.

She stood outside for a long time, as the firemen continued to put out the last of the fire, and they stayed all night to watch the embers. She took the children into the caretaker's cottage with Alain, and in the morning two policemen came to the door and wanted to see her. Alain's mother had come up from the farm shortly before that, to help her with her children.

“May we speak to you, Comtesse?” they asked discreetly, and she stepped outside with them. She didn't want Alain to hear what she had to say about her husband. They questioned her extensively, and told her that the firemen had found traces of kerosene in the second-floor hall, and on the stairs leading to her children. There would be a full investigation made, and as things stood now, they were prepared to bring charges against Bernard. She told them then about Louise de Beauchamp, and they thanked her.

She took a room for herself in a hotel in town that night, and they set up two cribs for her children, and Madame Fournier came with her. She was there for a week, to answer questions for the police and firemen, and after the fire cooled, she went back into the house to see what could be saved. Some silverware, some statues, some tools. Everything else had been destroyed or ruined, but the insurance people had already been there to see it. There was some question as to how much or if they would pay her anything, if it could be proven that Bernard had set the fire himself.

And she called Louise de Beauchamp after the first few days. It took Marie-Ange that long to calm down. The aftermath of the shock was worse than what she had felt the night it happened. She had lost not only her home, and nearly her children, but her hopes, her dreams, her husband, and her faith in him. He was being held in the local jail for further questioning, and Marie-Ange hadn't been to see him. All she wanted was to ask him why he had done it, how he could have hated her so much, and wanted to destroy their babies. It was something she knew she would never understand, but his motives were clear. He had done it for money.

And when they spoke on the phone, Marie-Ange thanked Louise for her warning. Had she not known, perhaps she would have been foolish enough to believe he was coming back for her, and never tried to find her way out through the bathroom window. And certainly, she would have believed his histrionics. But she would never forget seeing him that night, and the look of hatred in his eyes, as he watched her poised on the win-dowsill, praying she wouldn't dare leap to safety.

“I thought I heard your voice that night, telling me to jump,” Marie-Ange said sadly. “I was so afraid to, I almost didn't. But I kept thinking of what he would do to them if I died … and then I heard your voice in my head, saying jump,' and I did.”

“I'm glad,” Louise said quietly, and reminded Marie-Ange that she would gladly testify to what had happened to her, and Marie-Ange told her the police were going to call her. ‘You'll be all right now,” Louise reassured her, “better than I. Poor Charles was sacrificed to that bastard's greed. What a terrible thing to die for.”

“I'm so sorry,” Marie-Ange said again, and they talked for a long time, comforting each other. And in a way, Marie-Ange knew, Louise's warning had saved her, as much as the firemen and the net they had held, and the leap of faith she had taken.

They spent Christmas in the hotel, and the day after, Marie-Ange drove the children to Paris. She had already decided to sell the house on the rue de Varenne, and everything in it. She hated to stay in the apartment, but all their things were there, all that they had left, and Bernard could no longer hurt her. He had tried to call her once at the hotel, and she had refused his call. She never wanted to see him again, except in court, and she hoped he would go to prison forever for what he had done to Charles, and tried to do to her children. But the real tragedy for Marie-Ange was that she had not only trusted and believed in him, she had loved him.

It was New Year's Eve when she finally called Billy. She was at home with her babies, and thinking about him. She had so much to think of, values and ideals, and dreams that had been destroyed, integrity that had never existed. Like Louise, she realized now that she had been nothing more than a target for him from the first, a source of funds that he would have bled till it ran dry. She was just thankful that her trustees had been more cautious than she was. But at least the sale of the house in Paris would restore some of her financial balance.

“What are you doing at home tonight?” Billy asked when she called. “Why aren't you out celebrating? It must be midnight in Paris.”

“Pretty close.” It was shortly after, and it was five in the afternoon for him. He had been planning to spend a quiet night at home, with his family and his fiancee.

“Aren't you supposed to be at a grand party somewhere, Countess?” he teased her, but she didn't smile. She hadn't smiled in almost two weeks.

She told him about the fire, and what Bernard had done, or tried to do. She told him about Louise, and Charles, and the money Bernard had bilked from her. But more than anything, she told him what it had felt like, in the bathroom during the fire, and throwing her children out the window, and as he listened to her, she could hear him crying.

“My God, Marie-Ange, I hope they send the son of a bitch to prison forever.” He had never trusted him. It had all happened so quickly. Too quickly. And Marie-Ange had always insisted that everything was so perfect, and for a while she thought it was. But now that she looked back, she realized it never had been. She even wondered if the children he wanted so desperately had only been a way to distract her and tie her to him. She was just grateful now that she hadn't gotten pregnant a third time, but since the fire, she had been reassured that she hadn't. “What are you going to do now?” Billy asked her, sounding more worried about her than ever.

“I don't know. The hearing is in a month, and Louise and I are both going to be there.” She had described her face to him, and the tragedy she'd been through. Marie-Ange had been a great deal luckier in being able to save her children. “I'll be in Paris until I figure out what to do. There's nothing left at Marmouton. I suppose I should sell it,” she said sadly.

“You can rebuild if you want to.” He encouraged her, still trying to absorb the horror she had told him, and wishing he could put his arms around her. His mother had seen him crying on the phone, and had shooed everyone out of the kitchen, including his fiancee.

“I'm not even sure I do want to,” Marie-Ange said honestly about the home she had loved as a child, but so many tragedies had happened there that she was no longer sure she wanted to keep it. “So many awful things happened there, Billy.”

“Good things too. Maybe you need to take some time to think about it. What about coming here to kind of catch your breath for a while?” The idea appealed to her immensely, although she didn't want to stay at a hotel, and she couldn't impose two small children on his mother. Everyone on their farm was busy and had their hands full.

“Maybe. And I can't come in June for your wedding. I have to be here for the lawyers, and they said he might go to trial then. I'll know later.”

“So will I,” he said, smiling, and looking more boyish than ever, although she couldn't see him. Marie-Ange was twenty-three, and he was twenty-four now.

“What does that mean?” Marie-Ange questioned his cryptic comment.

“I don't know. We've been talking about putting the wedding off for another year. We like each other a lot, but sometimes I wonder. Forever is a hell of a long time. My mom says not to rush it. And I think Debbi's kind of nervous. She keeps saying she wants to live in Chicago. You know what it's like here. You're not talking big-city excitement.”